


Not a Bug, a Feature

by lindoreda



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Language, First Time, Grumpy horny Thorin, M/M, One Shot, Shameless Smut, Soulmates, not so oblivious bilbo, with each other that is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindoreda/pseuds/lindoreda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Thorin is perpetually aroused all of a sudden, and it makes him very grumpy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Bug, a Feature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/gifts).



> Hahahahaha I can't believe this is happening. Those of you who read my chaptered fic know that I complain just a little bit about writing smut, so you will be surprised to see this. It's all Avelera's fault, who encouraged me to imagine a world where Thorin wears so many layers of clothing because his entire body is a giant erogenous zone, and that's why he's so grumpy. I regret nothing.

His heart is pounding by the time he reaches the round, green door. He doesn’t understand it. He’s in good shape, and the terrain in the Shire is easily navigable. So why does he feel like he’s just run all the way from Ered Luin? Like he can suddenly feel every fiber in his clothes? He doesn’t remember ever being this uncomfortable in his life. Still, he knocks, the feel of the wood against his knuckles sending thrills through his nerves.

Gandalf opens the door, the sight of the old wizard strangely unpleasant at this moment. There is someone behind him, someone he needs to see. He peers around him, his eyes settling on a small, delicate looking creature. The hobbit Gandalf mentioned. Heat surges through his veins, which he can’t explain. He only knows that Gandalf must be joking. Master Baggins can’t come with them. It would be so easy for something to happen to him, and that is not permitted.

Still, when he hands over the contract, trying to push all of these irrational thoughts from his mind, his hand touches their burglar’s shirt. It’s only for an instant, but the heat from before is nothing in comparison. It’s almost like he’s been burned, except he knows that burns do not leave a pleasant ache behind. They don’t leave a strange tightness, to the point where he feels as though he will burst if he doesnt-

Doesn’t what?

He’s hard under the table, he realizes, more irritated than surprised. He’s nearly two centuries old, not a youth younger than Kili.

He has cause to repeat this thought when Bilbo chases after them, his cry causing Thorin’s heart (and his groin) to leap. The hobbit is the source of this sudden surge of discomfort, he realizes sourly. He resolves to put as much distance between them as possible. He can’t afford distractions, not at this point.

Except, suddenly, everything is a distraction. The feel of his clothes rubbing against his skin is unpleasant, which is new, but a careless touch through less fabric is worse, and bathing becomes his personal hell. What kind of depravity has he succumbed to, that water brings no relief to his flushed skin (and in fact made it worse)? He begins bathing separately on the occasions that it is possible, not wanting the others to know that apparently a worse sickness than the madness that took his father and grandfather existed.

The burglar continues his oblivious existence, and the sight of him becomes offensive. The rough burlap sacks the trolls packed them into are a relief in their own way, because they are another layer between him and the aching burn that brushing against the hobbit causes.

But it is not Bilbo’s fault, and he knows it. He knows that he is often too hard on him, blaming the hobbit’s lack of experience in the wild, when really, he simply can not tolerate having him around. It makes him have thoughts. The kind of thoughts that he had not allowed himself in a long time. He tries to be kinder, and Bilbo stays by his side for a time in Rivendell. For the first time, the hobbit’s presence is a relief, not a burden. The Elves stifle him, but Bilbo relaxes him.

Well, sometimes. The rest of the time he wants to fuck him. But that isn’t going to happen, especially given how unpleasant he’s made himself, so he tries to lessen some of his agony with his hand. It’s remarkable how unhelpful it proves to be.

So Bilbo has to go, and when he tumbles off the cliff, barely clinging to life, Thorin doesn’t hesitate to jump down after him, using the incident as an excuse to dismiss him. The hand that hauled Bilbo up feels as though a dragon breathed on it, and the feeling doesn’t go away. He wonders if this was a flaw in Mahal’s design, if sometimes dwarves his age start to burn up from the inside, their own personal forge raging out of control. He considers consulting Balin, but ultimately rejects it. If he is sick, he is weak, and a king cannot be weak.

When the warg’s fangs tear at his flesh, the pain far more intense than any he had yet experienced, he knows that he can’t go on in this way. But it doesn’t seem as if there will be much choice, the blade raised above him promising that while his death will be painful, at least it will be swift.

And then Bilbo is there, his sword strokes clumsy, but surprisingly deadly. Bilbo is in danger, and the intensity of that feeling, along with the pain, knocks him out. It is a fearful awakening, his heart hammering as it did that first day at Bag End. Where is Bilbo?

Bilbo is unharmed, standing at a respectful distance, looking properly bashful. Mahal, he wants to touch him, and finally, finally, he gives in. He cannot send him home. Having Bilbo near is sweet torment, but the panic he experiences when Bilbo is not beside him is not sweet at all. It chokes him, driving all other thoughts from his mind.

He breaks the embrace sooner than he would like, but he is still afflicted by every touch, and no doubt the hobbit would be discomfited if he knew how Thorin was affected. But Bilbo doesn’t look the least bit uncomfortable, and there’s enough affection in his eyes to suggest that maybe, maybe, Thorin can hope. He wonders when he started allowing himself to consider that possibility.

He almost destroys it in Mirkwood. The illusion of the forest entering his mind, combined with this sweet madness, almost exhausts even his considerable will. One very dark night, when he is on watch, he finds his hand reaching for Bilbo. It brushes against a bare foot, startling the hobbit awake, and though his fingers ache to touch more, he has his wits about him again for the moment. They talk, Bilbo accepting his clumsy explanation that he was reaching for something else, and somehow he gets through it without being too unpleasant.

But oh, if he could just touch Bilbo again…

The spider silk holding him fast is almost soothing. Another layer between his oversensitive skin and careless hands. But they are soon captured by elves, their hands pushing roughly, uncaring. They do not know that Thorin burns when he is touched, and why would it bother them? He does not resist until they take his outer layers. His armor, both literally and figuratively. He is vulnerable, the stone walls of his cell a constant assault. His rings rub against his fingers, and he actually considers removing them. 

It’s getting worse.

He almost considers refusing Bilbo’s plan. Bathing has been bad enough, plunging down a river in an open barrel would be impossible. But he can’t tell anyone this. He cannot be weak. So when the others object, he orders them into the barrels, the rough wood already promising pain as he slides into his.

There is water, and blood, and shouting everywhere, but a battle is something he can do. The battle fever is almost comforting, and while it does not dull his other sensations, it uses them as fuel. He is being tormented in the sweetest way, and these orcs will suffer for it. When they reach the shore, soaked and bedraggled, he feels better than he has in a long time, the battle fever bringing relief in a way that self-pleasure had not. He should question it, but he doesn’t. It is the will of Mahal, he tells himself, and he is right.

He puts on as many layers as the bargeman can give him, the relief passing quickly after being buried in stinking fish. It proves necessary, as Bilbo settles in beside him as if it’s the natural thing to do. It dulls the ache when Bilbo’s shoulder brushes against him lightly. The layers the master provides help even more, but when their boat lands on the shores of the mountain, suddenly they’re an encumbrance. He does not need walls between him and his mountain. And why should he fear Bilbo’s touch? When the mountain is retaken…

He isn’t sure where that thought leads. The closer they get, the bolder he becomes, making a conscious effort to keep Bilbo by his side, not entirely aware that Bilbo welcomes it, leans into it.

Not entirely aware that the pink in Bilbo’s cheeks or his shortness of breath might be from more than mountain climbing.

When they enter the mountain (thanks to Bilbo, and the ache worsens), the cool stone under his fingers is soothing, in a way. He has come so very much farther than he ever expected to, especially distracted as he was. But it is also a painful reminder. Bilbo must face the dragon, and he must wait outside. If he thought he was fevered before, it is nothing to now. The wind upon his heated face, once cool and refreshing, is now a new tormentor, a reminder that he should be in the mountain with Bilbo. Why is he exposing his hobbit to danger? He tells himself that he will not risk the quest for Bilbo, but if he is being entirely honest, he has been risking the quest for Bilbo since day one.

He gives in, and enters the mountain.

A new madness begins to war with his madness for Bilbo, and the results are nearly disastrous. But he must retake the mountain if he’s to have Bilbo, and when did he suddenly start thinking that?

He’s more than half-mad when the dragon leaves, the touch of gold on his fingers strangely soothing. It doesn’t make sense. But both madnesses agree that he must protect Bilbo, must wrap him in the armor of his people. Bilbo is a treasure, is his treasure, and must be kept safe.

Except, when he presents Bilbo with the mithril shirt, and Bilbo immediately strips off his shirt in order to don it (and oh, what a lovely torment that sight is), his first thought is that as good as the mithril looks on Bilbo, it would look better in a heap on the floor.

The way Bilbo puffs out a surprised breath and his mouth hangs open suggests that he just said that aloud. Thorin considers backtracking, apologizing for his bold harassment, but something stops him. Bilbo shifts in a way that suggests discomfort, as if the mithril is wool instead, and suddenly Thorin notices his hobbit’s glassy eyes, heavy breathing, and flushed face. He does not know what comes over him, as he reaches out a hand to test his theory, his fingers diving under the collar of the shirt to skate along Bilbo’s collarbone. Simply touching Bilbo feels like he is handling embers, but oh, it’s such a delicious pain. He endures, and his reward is a strange choked sound from the back of Bilbo’s throat, but the hobbit doesn’t move away. 

Thorin slowly drags his fingers up, to the graceful line of Bilbo’s neck, and watches in growing wonder as Bilbo bites his lip to muffle what was definitely a whine. When he reaches Bilbo’s delicately pointed ears, the hobbit exclaims, “Will you just get on with it already? If you’re going to tumble me, I’d rather do it before the dragon comes back, if you please.”

His carefully cultivated restraint snaps. “Such a soft word for what I want,” he groans, his mouth finding Bilbo’s and capturing it in a heated kiss. Bilbo does not freeze under the assault, as he might have expected. The hobbit’s arms come around his neck, and the kiss is returned. He is surprised by how ardently Bilbo kisses him back, and it feels as though the very iron in his blood is made molten by it. When Bilbo’s tongue touches his lips, it is like a lightning strike, and when he does the same to Bilbo, he whimpers. 

Their hands are everywhere, every touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and when he presses Bilbo against the stone wall, the brush of Bilbo’s cock against his makes him growl deep in his throat. His hobbit is already hard. Oh, why did he wait so long for this?

He rubs against Bilbo roughly, too far gone to care that he must look like a dwarfling in heat. Bilbo matches his rhythm, his choked gasps into Thorin’s mouth stoking the flames of his arousal. Why are they still wearing clothes, he wonders? It is far too restrictive, and he knows Bilbo shares this thought when he feels hands tugging on his belt.

The mithril shirt is cool under his fingers, and slides off Bilbo easily, exposing tender flesh that he knows he must explore. Bilbo’s ragged breaths are sweeter than the finest music as he licks and sucks his way down from the collarbone to the fine hair that disappears under the waistband of Bilbo’s trousers. He knows his beard must be scratchy, and probably feels unpleasant, but when he rubs his chin against Bilbo’s belly experimentally, the hobbit says his name in a plaintive cry. Not unpleasant then. Good.

There is no helping Bilbo’s trousers after that. Thorin tugs them off roughly, taking Bilbo’s undergarments with them. Bilbo tries to do the same, but is stymied by Thorin’s boots. Thorin nearly throws the dratted things across the room.

He moves to bring them back together, both fully bare now, flushed cocks freed and leaking, but Bilbo places his hands on Thorin’s chest, halting him. His fingers brush against Thorin’s ears, which would freeze him more surely than anything. They always were sensitive, and now the intensity forces him to bite back a moan. Encouraged, Bilbo explores the broad expanse of Thorin’s chest, running his fingers through the thick hair and tonguing a nipple, grinning into it when a moan tears free from Thorin’s throat. Oh, how bold, his hobbit, to torment a king so.

Bilbo continues traveling south, and Thorin wonders why he ever thought he could find relief from this with only his hand. It is nothing compared to when Bilbo reaches his cock, and presses a kiss to the head. He nearly comes right then, but that wouldn’t do, especially now that Bilbo leans back against the wall, and invitation which he eagerly accepts. He rubs his thumb against the head of Bilbo’s cock, covering it with the leaking fluid, then takes both of them in one hand, his other arm supporting him against the wall as he strokes them both.

It is not the way he would have imagined it, rutting against a wall in the armory. Any of the company could come in, and see… what? His shame? There is no shame here. He feels infinitely better than he has the entire journey. Bilbo’s flushed face as he pants and moans is a balm to his fevered mind, burning away any other madness that might seek to take root.

It is only when he feels his orgasm tearing through him, and he gives a hoarse cry, that he realizes that he has been repeating Bilbo’s name like a prayer. Bilbo finishes shortly after, saying his name in that breathy, choked way that makes his cock stand at attention (and it would, were he not so recently spent). 

Thorin cleans them both up, and it is only after they are both dressed again that he realizes that his clothes are not bothering him. He is barely aware of the feel of the fabric; his rings are not constricting. He looks at Bilbo, who seems to be experiencing a similar revelation, and a spike of fear shoots through him. What if that was it? What if achieving release with Bilbo that one time was all he needed, and it would not be as enjoyable a second time? That is not acceptable.

This fear is dispelled when he touches Bilbo’s hand to reassure himself, and they both jump back as if burned. This is a relief, but still a mystery, so he does what he should have done from the beginning: he consults Balin, dragging Bilbo along because so help him, there will be no more misunderstandings.

Balin requires very little of the long-winded explanation he had planned, interrupting with a tsk. “Sometimes I forget,” he began, and then seemed to think better of it. “Thorin, this is the work of Mahal. He knows that his creations tend to be, well, stubborn. So he made it so that when they finally found the other piece of their soul, they would be consumed by the fires of his forge until they chose to act on it, or reject their soulmate entirely. This is no sickness, but a feature, shall we say, imbued by our creator.” 

Balin clapped Thorin lightly on the arm. “So, I suppose congratulations are in order! And perhaps an apology to my poor brother, who walked in on the pair of you.”


End file.
